Of Masked Men, Women, Children And Dogs

Some of the fabric bought for the costumes

The last couple of weeks have continued in their extraordinary way. If my life is this rich I cannot imagine what everyone else’s must be like. I’m writing this sitting on Platform 8 at Geneva-Cornavin, the city’s main railway station. I arrived here a fortnight ago and, while so much has happened, it seems to have gone by so quickly. When I arrived at Cornavin I left the station for the 61 bus to France. On arrival at the end of that journey I walked the fifteen minutes journey to P’s apartment. As I turned the key in the lock there were no suprises. P and The Divine Miss M were in full sweatshop mode preparing our costumes for the coming Venice carnival. As always P had been overwhelmed at work and had very little time available for working on costumes. We only went out to buy the fabric four weeks ago and he's done an extraordinary job.

Some more rolls of fabric ready to be turned into costumes

Since then I think Miss M had come up from Annecy every time he had minutes at home. She moved in for the weekends too. The family consider we have a strange relationship. When they gather at family events the three of us - P, Me and The Divine Miss M, become “Les Savoyards”, chiefly on account that we don’t live in Isere, Grenoble being the place of P’s birth and upbringing until he left for his national service in the army. Progress on the costumes had been faster than I expected. P and Miss M work well together. P is the designer and artist who creates his costumes in the most organic of ways. All he required from me were my measurements. He didn’t trust that I had stayed the same over the past four years. He was probably right. What I hadn’t expected was that the costumes were going to be quite so ornate. I should really have known better. I barely had time to shower off the anguish of the journey and consume a bowl of warming soup than I was set to work on my own mask. This time we were using a Columbina design as the basis. Then I had to cut out the shape of the mask from fabric left over from my chemise and sleeves and carefully glue it to the mask. Matching the contours was tricky, but once that was done I could edge the mask with ornate gold trims and start adding shiny gems of costume jewelry. The final addition was to add two layers of fabic to veil my lower face. Once completed I was childishly delighted with the result. While the three costumes were substantially the same they were distingushed mainly by colour. We all had a different main colour. Mine was green.

My mask in progress.

Because I am writing (from his point on) several weeks (no, wait a minute, it's actually months) after the event I am not going to attempt to give a full account. I'll try a share a few pictures to give a flavour of the trip to Venezia and the 2018 carnevale. I shall back date this entry though so that it it falls within a sensible timeline within the context of the blog.

I have so many photographs of the other costumes, but this was a family from Switzerland. Their costumes were beautiful and the children were brilliant and very patient posing for hundreds of photographs, but the little one was SO cold, poor mite!

This gentleman, Philip Von Reutter, is a carnival veteran and well into his seventies. He borrowed the little masked dog from a passing visitor and posed for a few photographs. (edit: Very sadly, Philip passed away in May 2018. For many he characterised the spirit of carnival and will be missed. His costumes were incredibly inventive. I recommend you look for a photograph of his Van Gogh! Oh, okay I'll post one at the end of this essay.)

Philip Von Reuter

These were our day costumes, the ones created by P for this year's carnival. I think Miss M's arms may have been tired by this point. We each had starry, psychedelic banners to hold behind us. The original concept was that they be the walls of a music box out of which we would emerge to do a special dance. I could have predicted we'd be so tight for time on the costumes we'd have no chance to realise the concept properly. As it was, people thought we were celestial beings, and the music box walls became starry banners, not representations of sounds and music! I'd probably have thought the same, so I can't argue.

l-r Marsh, P, The Divine Miss M.

Marsh and P share an intimate moment near the Ponte dei Sospiri.

Nowadays one can only stay costumed and masked for four days. After Shrove Tuesday masks may no longer be worn. In times gone by, though, Venetians stayed masked for six months of the year and got up to all sorts of mischief. Venice had thriving red light areas and customers flocked into the city to take advantage of the city's charms. It was, however, a destination or home for so many gay men that prostitutes complained about the lack of business! In the 1400s the city council was so shocked to discover there were so many gay men not using the facilities provided they paid women to stand on the bridge displaying their breasts as a means of converting these errant souls. Old Whore Street and Tits Bridge are remnants of this unusual municipal facility.  There are no records as to the success of this somewhat inventive plan!

The Tits Bridge end of Old Whore Street

Copping a feel on Tits Bridge

As last time we were able to spend a few days seeing the sights. David took us to see many places we had not seen before including the rooftop terrace of the second largest building in Venice that dates from 1285. Now it is a luxury goods megastore, but it was originally a centre for trade. From the terrace much of Venice is visible.

Kings (or Queens?) on the rooftop terrace of the 800 year old Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the second largest building in Venice.

Given our interests in the mask and costume traditions of the city it was amazing to spend time in the workshop of a traditional family business making papier maché masks. Having made my mask for my carnival costume on a Columbina base in a modern style I wanted to try and decorate a traditionally made mask in a traditional pattern. Taking a plain papier maché Bauta mask as my starting point I borrowed a traditionally decorated mask  and copied the pattern and the colours as best I could. Had we more time it would have been fun to try and incorporate a torn off section of musical notation. I asked about this and there is a story, but I forgot the reason. I'm sure P or David will remember.

Seeing Venice from the water is definitely the best

Last time we came to Venice the only travel on water we did was one trip across the Grand Canal by man-powered traghetto, but mostly we travelled by the motorised vaporetto, the water bus. This time five of us pooled our resources one afternoon and took a trip in a gondola. The skill of the gondolier is staggering. No wonder the training takes five years before one can apply for a licence to trade. Buying a gondola is not cheap either. Got a spare €30k, guv'nor?

Traghetto across the Grand Canal 

Of course Venice has a massive cultural history. Listed in many travel guides as one of the world's "must-see" bookshops the Alta Acqua Libreria fulfils and confounds every expectation and is crowded with visitors. It is stacked from floor to ceiling with (mostly) second-hand books. They are stored according to subject. It also lives up to its name. In case of high water, many of the books are ready piled in a gondola and there are some in enamel bath-tubs too. At the back of the shop is a tiny courtyard and the shop owner has created a staircase from old books. Of course we all had to climb it to see over the wall to the adjacent canal.

The visit was over far too quickly. Eight days is not enough to see everything. It is barely enough to realise that Venice is truly unique in the world and that it is the only city in the world to which I am determined to return. There never has been, nor ever will be again, a place like Venice. Climate change is a very real threat. A month after our visit the Piazza San Marco was nearly waist-deep in water during the Alta Acqua (high tide).

In addition to lots of walking and visits to all kinds of buildings we had seen the works of Titian and and attended a concert of music by Vivaldi. I gave two short performances in the hotel on different evenings. On one of the evenings I sang Referendum Rag. When I got to the harmonica solo, the "Ode To Joy" part, the whole audience sang along - funny, moving and most unexpected. That has never happened when I've sung the song in the UK!

Ciao Venezia

One of Matteo Chinellato's photographs of Philip Von Reuter's Van Gogh

Of Snows Of The Wrong Kind And Late Night Chairobatics

As I mentioned in the last post (did I really write that?) the day, (now yesterday, do try to keep up) started dramatically enough. Leaping on to trains having already run a marathon between platforms followed by a distressing encounter with a troubled man were just the beginning of what was to prove an exhausting and very stressful day.

The gate to international trains at St Pancras International slid open as I shared the ticket in the Wallet application on my mobile phone admitting me to that holy sepulchre, security. Suitcase, backpack, bumbag, water bottle, coat and hat in large trays were treated to x-ray zapping. None of the nonsense of removing computers, tablets, e-readers, belts, shoes and anything else that conflicts with the rules du jour that afflict air travellers (or visitors to Parliament ... ah, you don't know about that yet, I must get round to bringing you up to date with my recent January - you will need to know about harmonicas and padlocks!). Two border control people fought for my attention at adjacent desks. I apologised to the one I had rejected and he graciously accepted my expression of regret. Another helper was available to aid me with inserting my passport the correct way round in the e-passport gate and there I was, in Valhalla - the international rail departure lounge at St Pancras. I had made the journey in plenty of time. I love it when plans actually work out. It so rarely happens. First stop, breakfast. Much lighter in the wallet later I had stocked up on more than enough goods to get me on to the train and through the three-hour journey to Paris. I may not be vegan, but I do try to select vegan food options when available. As usual at railway stations, there were none. After a short wait during which I began to write up my stingingly fresh memory of the distressed man we were called to board our train, which also proved to be painless enough. As we were boarding I caught part of the announcement that seemed to suggest there would be a twenty-minute delay getting into Paris, but no one else was listening and no one seemed to be making a fuss above their ambient chatter that had partially blocked the message, so I let it go too. The train left on time and I was looking forward to a stress-free trip from Paris Nord to Gare de Lyon on the RER, two stops only - the order of the day. I think I have now memorised the route from platform to platform, de quai à quai, and I had tickets left from the carnet I bought on a previous adventure. There would be no queuing necessary at a ticket office or behind one of the (usually few) working ticket machines at Paris Nord.

A little snow in Northern France 

I tried reading, but having had even less sleep than usual, I couldn't keep it going. I am currently reading Judy Dyble's autobiography written in partnership with Dave Thompson and really wanted to get past the obligatory childhood memories and on to her time as a performing musician. I dozed. I came to in the blackness of the Chunnel and dozed some more. The countryside of Northern France sped by. A sign on the screen in our part of the carriage pointed out that Eurostar had hit a record 346.7 mph at some point in the past. I wanted to fire up the speedometer application on my phone to see how fast we were travelling at that moment, but resisted, knowing I would need to conserve battery life for later in the day. The fields were beginning to look whiter. At first I couldn't make out if this whiteness were frost, snow or lime spread in anticipation of a specific crop. Soon it became apparent that this was snow. A few inches of the stuff were piling up on branches drooping under the weight as we rolled by. All was going well with the journey and the sign on the screen informed us we would soon be arriving at Paris Gare du Nord. Then we stopped. We didn't move for quite a while. We edged forward and stopped again. The disembodied voice from on high informed us we would be arriving fifty minutes late, because the snow had meant there were three trains ahead of us waiting to pull into the station. We were in a train jam! It appears that the French rail system also is prone to suffer the effects of the wrong kind of snow. After much more edging forward and stopping we eventually arrived at the station two hours late and it was clear I was going to miss my connection to Geneva. Half-an-hour should have been sufficient time to get me between these two Paris main stations and I had timed my journey to leave two hours. On this occasion it wasn't enough. 

Rather more snow in Northern France

I have often underestimated how much a difference in style makes in understanding helpful notices between the UK and France. For example, in England a direction sign with a down arrow suggests a descent to a lower level. In France it means go straight ahead (notified in the UK by an up-arrow).  On the tube in London, all stations are listed as destination options at the entrance to a pedestrian tunnel, staircase or platform. Nothing of the kind seems to exist in France. One just seems expected to know that a train heading for Malesherbes or Melun will stop at the major gateway to the south, Gare de Lyon, in two stops. I think I have cracked this one now and  - probably for the first time - I found Quai 44, the home for southbound trains on the green RER ligne D without any wrong turns. However, there was still nothing really obvious confirming that my destination was possible. This was further confused by the apparent introduction of trains from Ligne B on to this track. The overhead electronic destination board was listing places with which I was not familiar and Gare de Lyon featured in none of the information. I checked with a woman in my broken Français and I understood that what I was now expecting was correct, namely that not this train, but the next one, should be my train of choice. It was. The first train pulled in and it was at this point that I discovered that even French people get confused with their own system.   The woman turned to me and said something I didn't understand and I smiled gormlessly in acknowledgement. She gave up after a few attempts to help me understand something. Then amongst a little gang of men on the platform a cry went up. Does this train go to Gare de Lyon? It doesn't, okay. It does? It does! One of the men leapt on the train and I followed in what used to be called hot pursuit. Once on the train I looked at the route map. There above the door in its full green glory was the route for Ligne D. The destination I hadn't recognised was a tributary of the main line and the only way to that destination was via Gare de Lyon, two stops down! Aaagh! I am never going to understand this. My map of the Paris Métro and RER system stops short of the tributary and so, of course, I had never seen it on the plan. Once again, and for the second time in the day, railway destination boards proved unhelpful. 

I arrived at Gare de Lyon about ten minutes after my connection to Geneva had been due to leave. I considered the possibility that my next train had been delayed too and that I would still be able to catch it, but of course today was not going to be that day. I looked on the overhead information boards and there was no sign of any train leaving for Geneva, on time, running late or at any time in the foreseeable future. What if the train I had booked on to was the last of the day? It took me a further twenty minutes of drifting between Halls 1, 2 and 3 to find help. I found a man in his smart SNCF uniform who was loitering in the lobby and answering the questions of the stranded and delayed. Every answer seemed to initiate the immediate flight from his spot to a distant part of the hall with the hapless passenger in pursuit. I joined the game and once again failed to crack a French code. This one probably explained why railway station staff in uniforms only answer questions from people who interrupt a previous passenger requiring another migration with a flock of the confused in tow. After a while I had been his acolyte for longer than anyone else and was still being ignored every time I moved into his direct line of vision and opened my mouth to speak. That was the point at which I gave up and looked for another solution. Eventually I found the ticket office in a hitherto hidden corridor between Halls 1 and 2 and decided that enlightenment lay somewhere near at hand. The queue leading from the door was horrendous. It was being marshalled by barrier straps while the entrance to the ticket office itself was staffed by bouncers. No one was allowed through unless they had queued for at least half-an-hour, unless for some unfathomable reason the bouncers decided it was your turn to sidle up to the exit lane and push through to the inside - another French code I have yet to break. This queue was at least as long as the queues I had often encountered at ticket machines on the Paris underground during strikes and public holidays, when most of the machines had already given up in despair and actual ticket offices with real people were closed. It was also growing longer by the second. I turned to the woman behind me and asked as best I could if this was the right place to come as I had missed my connection. She answered in the affirmative helpfully filling in my halting French with random words in English. So I waited … a very … long … time. Finally being beckoned into the ticket office foyer I was greeted by a charming and smiling woman in SNCF colours who looked at my home-printed ticket and led me to a machine that dispensed tickets with numbers. This is France after all. My number was I39043. The foyer was festooned with more overhead display screens. It was overhead display screen heaven. I worked out that my ticket number would appear in a left-hand column and the desk at which I was to present myself for assistance would be in a corresponding right-hand column. I learned a new word, guichet (n. m. - a window in a post-office, bank or some other administrative office through which one speaks to an employee). Once again I was confused by the customs associated with this form of queuing. While waiting for my ticket number (I39043, remember) to hit the display I had to experience a somewhat abstract arrangement of letters and numbers first. Ticket number A61230 would be followed by, say J11275 and then a sequence of I numbers, except for mine. It took me a while to discern that the newest number appeared at the top of the screen and eventually disappeared altogether from view after it had dropped to Number Six in the chart. I did not even begin to work out what happened if one missed a turn. My eyes stayed glued to the screen. After another half-hour I was summoned to guichet dix-huit. I handed my ticket to the gentleman at the desk and explained as best I could my quandary. He tapped at his computer keyboard and I had to wonder if I should trail behind when he leapt up from behind his desk and hurtled out amongst the throng to speak to the woman who had allotted me my ticket number. I stayed and awaited his return. I assumed his return was as near to inevitable as dammit. He did indeed come back to his desk and he could not have been more helpful. He changed my booking to the 15.15 train and didn’t even charge me for another ticket. I had been fearful that I would be expected to cough up another €90, because French rail staff are generally rather keen for passengers to travel only on their allotted train and only in their allotted seats. Booking websites are equally keen to point out that tickets are not transferable. I needn’t have worried. The experience from here onwards was actually rather painless, barring the inevitable wait for my next train.

A little south of Paris the snow disappeared altogether. It appears that the snow that had caused so much chaos was in reality a narrow belt stretching from the west coast to the German border. Once in Switzerland I knew my way. I could almost do that bit blindfolded. It took me longer to pick out the Swiss francs in my change to buy my ticket from the ticket machine for the 61 bus back across the border into France. Having arrived at knocking-off time I had to stand for the whole journey. Arriving at my destination in the town centre left me with just the fifteen-minute walk to P’s apartment. 

When I opened the door the sewing machine was throbbing and production was in full flow. The Divine Miss M was brandishing gold-threaded braid and asking me how much I wanted to be able to tie up my new cape. P immediately had me balancing on a chair so he could pin up the pantaloons he had made me. I was so exhausted that I was seriously afraid of not being able to keep my balance. Breaking a leg at this stage would be most inconvenient. Tomorrow night we leave for Venice. Carnival awaits.

Work in progress - The Divine Miss M

Work in progress - P modelling my outfit so far

Of Men In Distress

I don't know how it works that £16 can buy a permanent place to stay, but that’s what he said. How could I argue? The poor man was clearly very distressed. It was not even six in the morning and already the homeless were out and about. Being homeless, perhaps he’d been out and about all night and it hadn’t been the kind of night I would have wanted to be outside; not at all.

I came down to London yesterday. I arrived about 8.30pm and stayed overnight with my dear friend from my schooldays. As usual, M and I discussed our latest political adventures, art and music. We shared our news to the gentle accompaniment of his newly discovered ukulele chords while I noodled on the guitar I had restrung for him a couple of weeks ago. We mardled till gone eleven and he called time first. He had to be up at five for work. I had to be up at four to get a train to Paris.  

There seems to be a hierarchy of platform information on the Bedford to Brighton line. During the night plans can change in an instant. This was a phenomenon I first encountered when, for a while, I used Leagrave Station regularly. The same phenomenon seems to affect West Hampstead too. It was while I was mulling over the implications of how a train that had been due on Platform One in four minutes had become a train going to another destination in fourteen minutes that my train arrived ... two platforms away. Maybe it serves me right for staring at the half-occluded moon through the screen of tiny, gently falling snowflakes. There was no way of knowing that the new arrival was actually the train I wanted, but there were clues. It was heading in the right direction, there were only two stops to St Pancras International and check-in time was approaching. I ran with my large suitcase and heavy backpack up the stairs to the footbridge, along the footbridge and down on to the new “right” platform. I don’t know why or how this happens. It’s not as though West Hampstead is in the middle of nowhere. I hurdled the gap to mount the train, but the necessary exertion felt rather extreme and, as I sat in the train with the doors closing, gasping to catch my breath  and hoping my heart would hold out for the remainder of the day, I realised once again that I am not a fit man; certainly not in the traditional sense and barely in my own imagination in any other sense.  

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but checking in for international trains is so much more civilised than checking in at an airport. Having ignored those signs that now forbid taking suitcases on the escalators, I was making my way to the Eurostar entrance at St Pancras (with as much optimism as I could muster after a night’s sleep lasting one hour and forty minutes and a fierce attack of insomnia) when I passed a lonely piano. No one was there to tease music from its keys and strings, but I was vaguely aware of a couple just ahead of me - at least without looking directly at them they looked like a couple - until one half, the male half, shuffled my way. I am very familiar with that shuffle. He was coming to ask me for money. Being about to go through security I had taken all my change out of my pockets and put it into the pouch strapped to my waist. Since it was still only 05.45 I hadn’t anticipated meeting any homeless person who needed money and hadn’t got my “buskers pocket” ready with the £10 I usually budget for a day in town. His opening gambit was to hold open his hand and display a modest collection of silver and copper coins. I couldn’t make out everything he said, but he was clearly very distressed. It seemed he had been trying to raise enough money for some sheltered accommodation. In three days all he had managed to beg were these few coins. He seemed convinced that £16 would secure him somewhere to stay tonight and on nights to follow and I think he was facing a deadline, or at least he seemed to feel he was. He said people had been very unkind. He looked as though he’d had a rough time. He had indeed been through the wars. He told me he had been in the army, bomb squad, and had also been shot. He’d fought for his country, it had affected his nerves and he hadn’t expected to be treated with the contempt he’d encountered on his return. He kept pulling at his sleeves which revealed informal tattoos and patches of what looked like red dye. “I’m not an addict,” he declared, “but here’s where I was injured”. I lost his thread at that point as he explained that he was so upset that so few people seemed willing to help.  My judgmental side was about to explain that no one should feel obliged or coerced into giving him anything, but looking at the pathetic handful of coins, I broke my usual rule and pulled out my wallet. I fumbled around for a five-pound note and offered it to him. “That’s really kind of you,” he said, “but what good is that going to do me? If I don’t get the sixteen pounds soon I shall lose my bed. I can’t spend another night out in this weather. I can’t stand living in this world where people are so unkind. I’m going to finish it.” He made a slicing motion across his throat with his fingers. I would love to have had enough time to sit him down with a cup of tea and encourage him to share his story, but I needed to get my train. I put the fiver back in my wallet and on impulse pulled out a twenty and pressed it against his hand. “Sixteen pounds is what you need today?” He had been on the verge of weeping when trying to articulate his situation, but now the tears flowed. He grabbed my hand and thanked me over and over. It was reward and embarrassment enough to be able to conjure in my conscience a little hope that this small gesture would help take some of his immediate worries away. I’ve known depression and I’ve known suicidal despair, but I could not begin to imagine what this man had been going through, nor did I really know why he needed that precise amount of money. I know I’ve been lied to by people begging in the streets before, but that isn’t the point and nor does it worry me as much as the fact that they were forced there in the first place by circumstances likely to have been beyond their control. Were I in that position I think I would learn to do and say whatever I could to get through a day if I hadn’t died first. The handshakes clearly weren’t enough. He threw his arms round me and locked me in an embrace. My first thought was alarm. I didn’t want to have to deal with head-lice if he had them. I have enough difficulty communicating in French without having to take a trip to the pharmacie. This thought was quickly quashed by shame. When was the last time this man had been hugged? I pulled him in closer and held him until he was ready to pull away. Still thanking me he started backing away and wishing me a safe and happy journey. I hope he has an hour or two of relief from his  burdens. London’s mayor is currently running a campaign in support of relief for rough-sleepers. No one should have to sleep rough. This man has obviously fallen through the net and he cannot be the only one. Two of the last three or four rough sleepers I have met and spoken to are talking about suicide. One of them may even be dead; he had a plan. Just one is too many. Such talk is unlikely to be a coincidence. Homelessness is becoming an increasing problem and is affecting more and more of us. It is an indelible mark on our collective conscience and, unless this nation looks closer to see what is really happening out there, it is going to become much worse. I hope I don’t meet you on the streets.